Ch. 8: The Witch in White
Back to Arheled “Hi-ho, the elders are here, hey-ho, the elders are near.” murmered Ronnie Wendy as he biked down Rt. 44 just outside Winsted. It was a beautiful clear morning. The last few days had been warm and suddenly humid, followed by two days of cold, gloomy, green rain. But now the humidity was washed out of the air, and he had to wear a hat and sweater when he got up to “do the can route”, as he was calling it, a full hour before dawn. It reminded him of old days long before, when he’d been a paperboy and had to get up at 5:00 to start the route. The stupid park workers always came in at 5:30, and Ronnie preferred to avoid them. So he would bike up to Winsted in the black morning, arriving around 5 at Rowley Park, and check the trash cans there and on the green, and sometimes the ones on Main St. If there was a “big haul” or if he had a full sack already, it was over the hill to Super Stupor for him. It was as regular as a paper rt, and netted as much, averaging $30-$50 per week. But now it was mid-August, and the elderberries were ripe. Them and the raspberries. So after he had cashed the cans from today’s haul—half a sack, with all the beer the carnival staff drank while setting up—he was heading down to the patches he’d observed along Rt. 44, east of Super Stupor, to gather elders. He had to pass Eaglebrook Farms before he found the first batch, near the Animal Hospital, a euphremistically named cottage out of which the vets operated. It was sunk in a ditch, deep grasses and swamp dogwoods gleaming white with the heavy dew surrounding the tall tangled stems of the elderberry. It was as wet as if it rained. The early sun sparkled on the dewed leaves. Ronnie pushed in, hiding his bike—the last thing he needed was some idiot calling the police to gabble that an abandoned bike was lying beside the road. Because then the police, instead of having the common sense to fine the idiot for wasting their time, would nod with vast solemnity and send a patrol car up to investigate, and no matter how innocent you might be acting, if you were anywhere nearby they would question you like you’d just been arrested. Bending down the hollow woody stems, Ronnie broke off the large flat clusters at the base. Tiny reddish-black berries sat on a lacework of short stems, some scanty with only a few berries, others so thick they bent the bush down. They tasted bitter, and about the only use he had found for them was in pies or as jam. The dew soon soaked his legs and sleeves. Finishing that bush, he turned back towards Winsted and pulled into the Mallory Brook Plaza, around the bend from Super Stop & Shop. Here a deep moat channelled the outflow of the triangular marsh on the south bordering Super Stupor, that marked the headwaters of the old Mad River’s bed. A few small streams emptied into this, from Wallens’ Hill, and the Torringford Hill on the west, and West Hill on the south. The moat flowed, broad and sluggish, between parking lot and highway, bridged halfway by the entrance, and emptying at last into the beginning of Mallory Brook. An unusually brazen beaver, unfazed by traffic, had thrown about four dams across this moat, it its’ lodge in the pool closest to the entrance. Cattail-reeds stood tall and brush-tipped in thickets of greeny-tan canes, and sedges crowded the water, along with a few clumps of alder and scattered elderberry. The water was fringed with purple loosestrife, its’ tall narrow spikes in full bloom of rich lavender-pink, making, along with the frequent half-red of many leaves, a peculiar brown-red-green effect. “Interesting how they hate the loosestrife as an invasive weed, because it pushes out the native species, and yet the species it displaces are dull and ugly to behold, while it brings into our swamps a beauty they had never known.” murmered Ronnie. He picked quickly, eager to be on time for daily Mass, and was able to finish in time. He pedaled back up past Super Stupor, glancing up at the plaza sign. The legend “Sophia’s Pizza” still showed in one of the small bars under the main logo, and ever since Lara had told them her dreams that name always made him smile. He locked up his bike to the flagpole outside the church and went in to change. When he came out, he blessed himself with holy water, pushed through the swinging doors and entered the church. Glancing around he decided to sit in back, towards the left, and genuflecting as all Catholics do he slipped into the rearmost pew. There was Mr. Slocum, off in the corner. The cheery old Dominican nun. Mrs. Rogers, a dried oldish woman with sleepy blue eyes and a sleepy smile. Maria with her shy pulled-in face and shy wide smile, a very serious and introverted young woman from the youth group. A woman in white with brown hair tied back, looking rather a rather dingy nurse. Feeling a faint but definite aversion to this last Ronnie did not glance in her direction. He told himself he was being uncharitable and pushed the odd repulsion down. She was whispering prayers constantly to herself. Father Dennis, the pastor, was saying Mass today. An earnest, appeasing sort of man, he was very devout in a simple but evident way. His thin whitish hair was cropped close to his tall head. His way of speaking was earnest and impassioned, with a slight but frequent hesitation approaching a stammer which never affected his delivery. Like all the priests at St. Joseph’s, he was a Franciscan, and when not vested he always wore the habit. “…and now that the health care plan re-re-re-requires contraceptives to be distributed even by Catholic hospitals, we must ask ourselves: what d-d-dis''ease'' is contraception intended to '' prevent''?...” Ronnie frowned. The great Health Care Plan had been a sore point with people of the most disparate views. The only thing Catholic institutions, when faced with such an authoritative immorality, could morally do was close. Which was the whole point of making contraceptives mandated by law in the first place. “The Peace of the Lord be with you.” he heard a bright and overeager voice almost in his ear. It was the Sign of Peace time, then. He looked up and saw the woman in white had come all the way out of her pew and stood next to his with extended hand. Feeling that strange averted repulsion most of us describe as “uncomfortable” or “vibes”, Ronnie gravely inclined his head and did not shake. What was wrong with him anyway? He didn’t usually feel this strongly about people. He thought about the hospitals again. Secularized, most of them would simply stop pretending to be Catholic. And the ones that were, would close. The result would be a medical field left entirely in the hands of the enemy. He had heard stories about what went on in there. Stories of organ donors who were unaware of their donation…of living wills that terminated many dying people before their time, filled out with complete ignorance of their true purpose…concealed under a cloak of white coats and latex gloves and antiseptics. The martyrdom of Terry Shiavo made this all the more clear. He was still thinking about it as he walked up to receive—at the end of the line, annoyingly. The woman in white was in front of him. He frowned an concentrated on praying. Her shirt had a tear on her right shoulder blade. All at once she turned and motioned him to go in front of her. Ronnie, a little startled, automatically motioned her to go before him. She vehemently refused. Shaking his head, both annoyed and uncomfortable, Ronnie offered this up to God as well. In reparation for my sins…O most holy Mother, Mary Immaculate, prepare my heart to receive my Saviour…Behind him he heard the woman feverishly whispering Hail Marys like incanations. After Mass, feeling somehow a strong desire to avoid anyone, Ronnie slipped out the side door. He heard a scrambling behind him and as he headed toward his bike he heard the door thrown open and the voice of the woman in white, queer and gushy and high, shouting after him, “Sir! Sir! Excuse me!” Ronnie ignored her. The aversion was screaming inside of him. '' Enemy. Warning. Enemy. '' He reached his bike. She was hurrying after him down the asphalt walk, still hailing him. Ronnie spun around and fixed her with his eyes. Deep and burning in his sharp hollow face under his reddish hair, they were frightening eyes. “What do you want?” he demanded. “Scuse me! Who are you? What is your name?” “Why do you want to know?” he challenged. “I want to know your name! Do you usually go around harassing the parishoners?? You won’t shake hands at the Sign of Peace! You insist on '' breathing down '' my neck '' at the Communion line! I didn’t want you behind me!” Ronnie blinked once or twice. She had a lined, worried, harassed face, with green eyes and eyebrows that puckered upwards, like an old dog’s. Neurotic was the first word that entered his mind. Others, more sinister, followed. “I want to know your name and then I want to see whatever badge of security department you come from!” “Excuse me??” “I want you to come with me to the Winsted police station right now, I’m filing a complaint against you….” “I am going,” Ronnie said in a very slow and deliberate voice, “to see Father Dennis right now and ask his protection against you.” With firm dignity he strode off toward the front. ''Irrational evil, '' he thought, his mind whirling. '' For the first time I have beheld irrational evil. '' His voice quivered as he told Father that a woman in white had threatened to call the cops on him because he wouldn’t shake hands at the Sign of Peace. Father was understandably a little bewildered but told him just to avoid that person from now on. On the way out Ronnie saw his enemy conversing vehemently with the cheery old nun and Mrs. Rogers. He stepped behind some very tall ornamental grass and waited until his enemy had gotten into her car and driven off—doubtless for the police station. Then he walked down to Mrs. Rogers. “Who was that woman?” he said grimly. “A very troubled soul,” said Mrs. Rogers gently. “She told us all sorts of stuff, and asked us to pray for her two children. Anna, I think, and Luke.” “She threatened to betray me.” Ronnie growled. “I think frankly she’d cop on anyone,” the nun said cheerily, “she was threatening to turn '' me in because I’m in full habit.” “She tried to take the Host and dip It into the Precious Blood.” said Mrs. Rogers. At St. Joseph’s the consecrated wine that had become the Precious Blood was held in a chalice by a deacon for communicants to receive after they had been given the Host. “The deacon had to tell her off.” “No wonder she didn’t want me behind her.” said Ronnie. Receiving the Host in your hands was bad enough, but to take It and dunk It in the Blood like a Dunkin Donut was irregular at best. “She said they do it that way at Lourdes, but they do a lot of things there that we don’t.” Mrs. Rogers told him. The Shrine of Our Lady of Lourdes in Litchfield had an outdoor chapel shaded by trees with asphalt and pews around them, a replica of the Lourdes grotto with the altar under it, and a gift shop. The priests there were often Modernistic in their views and weird in liturgical practices; it was one of the last holdouts of pop-church culture in NW Connecticut. “We must pray for her. She’s a very disturbed woman.” “She’s worse.” muttered Ronnie. “Much, much worse.” On the way down Main St he overtook Moria Morgan, who wore as usual her brown dress, and a grey sweater above it as the morning was still cool. She carried her long spear-like umbrella with a hooked handle, old-fashioned and black. Ronnie dismounted and walked his bike beside her. “Hullo, Moria.” he said. She pushed back her long straight hair and turned her head, showing her small face with its’ composed little smile. “Hello Ronnie. How is everything.” she said in her strange deliberate voice with the downward inflection terminating each sentence. “Fine, I suppose. More or less. As usual.” There was concern in her brown eyes under the perennial dignity of her bearing. “Something happened at Mass. Didn’t it.” she said. “I have met the Witch in White.” Ronnie answered in a low voice. “Did you really. That must be disturbing.” she said. Ronnie bent an odd, thoughtful look upon her. “You don’t seem surprised.” “You are not surprised by what you expect.” she replied sedately. Ronnie continued to regard her in that thoughtful manner. “How long have you expected it?” he said. “I thought she was just someone in a song.” “She is a troubled spirit.” Moria answered. “There are witches and witches. Some witches curse religion and flinch at prayers; and some, more powerful, use the prayers themselves as magic.” “Have you always…known?” “Known what, Ronnie?” she said in her soft voice. “How much is known to you? Do you yourself know what this is all about?” Still Ronnie stared at her, strangely, consideringly. “Who are you?” he said at last. “I am Moria.” she said in her downward inflection, bestowing a warm smile on him. “And I am on the side of the Church.” Ronnie watched her walk up Park Place, his expression brooding. Then he turned to bike down Winsted Rd and the Still River turnpike back home. “The Fireman’s Carnival always gets rained out!” said Moriel Bianci in his expansive Italian manner. “At least one of its’ days. Every Fireman’s Carnival I’ve been to. It’s a tradition.” “Well, it certainly held true last year.” Ronnie jested. “I found a ton of rain-spoiled fried dough one morning. And yesterday there was a thunderstorm right around opening time.” “Shall we head over to the carnival today and see the fireworks? And risk getting rained on?” chuckled Sir Ralph The River, as Ronnie called him. He was a stoutish young man, shaved bald except for a small mustache of pale orange hair, with a round good-natured face and an easygoing manner. The girls, who were listening to this exchange with a mixture of admiration and “you men are weird”, both started laughing. “Oh yeah, I’ll go.” said Shannon. She was short and curvy, with arched brows and dark cute eyes and a very cute, melty manner. Everyone around her seemed compelled to pay her outrageous compliments for no reason—if Moriel and Ronnie were any example. Moriel, thin and dark and Italian, practically flirted; Ronnie would spin off high airy adjectives such as the birthday card he’d give her, which was full of exaggerated sentences such as “she in whom the quintessence of cuteness is incarnated for the confoundation of every boy around.” “Um, okay, this is crazy.” giggled Dominique. “Let me see. Is Mary going?” “I don’t know, call her.” said Ralph. The Young Adults Group—or youth group, as Ronnie insisted on calling it—of St. Joseph’s hadn’t met since winter, and as Mary their leader was leaving in a week to move to Virginia, they had called a meeting to discuss what to do. All of them were friends, but felt that odd parting sense that comes when youth become adults and settle down and no longer see each other. “All right.” chirped Dominique. Ronnie considered her about the prettiest girl in NW Connecticut; a claim that, if he’d lived in medieval times, he likely would have been proving with sword and lance against all comers. Medieval knights had a bad habit of going around forcing every other knight to admit that his lady was prettier than anyone else’s. She would have been worthy of it, too. Tall and rather slim, she had loose-blown long hair of a glossy chestnut-black and marvellously pretty features, small but very detailed as if drawn with ink. She had amazingly red lips, the only girl Ronnie had seen to have lips that were red without being painted, and dark smiling eyes that crinkled when she laughed. Her voice was very high, soft and pinched, almost like a child’s. She had lovely olive-brown skin, not surprising as she was half Italian. When she talked she frequently giggled, a nervous half-shy giggle that everyone found fetching. Dominique finally managed to get hold of Mary Rogers, who was manager at Peebles Dept. Store in the Mallory Brook Plaza, and reported that Mary would “find them there.” It was evening now, and so they decided to walk over; parking was bound to be tight. “So you were saying that Melkor was the cause of corruption in Tolkien’s mythology?” Ralph said to Ronnie. Moriel was paying Shannon all sorts of flamboyant compliments while she listened demurely and fluttered her eyelashes; but Dominique was listening to Ralph and Ronnie, her face serious but her eyes wide. “Not the Fall of Man?” “The Fall of Man was deliberately kept dark by Tolkien, as he was relating things from an Elvish view, as well as the fact that he didn’t want to bring in or refer to Christianity. He felt that would spoil the story.” said Ronnie. “Matter, in his view, was already flawed, from the discord he brought into the Music, and was Marred before Adam ate or Melkor poured his essence out. He added to this, infecting all matter with the stain of his essence, doing to Arda what Sauron did to the Ring: his Ring was all the World, save for Valinor, where his stain was kept at bay by the Valar.” “That’s pretty intense.” said Ralph. “So you think maybe the Fall of Man made it possible for him to do that? And how come he never gets it back?” “It was a curse upon the spirits that if they put out power into something, it would not return. I’m not talking about telekinesis. I’m talking about putting power into something to make it powerful, like what Aulë almost did to the Dwarves, ad probably did do to Angainor. It was the nature of the matter of old to retain the footprints of the Gods, like wet earth or mud. But now the world is old and dried up, and Christ came, and when He came that old law ceased.” “Yes, I remember last time you were telling me that.” said Ralph. “So Melkor’s strength leaked out of matter and into him? But wouldn’t that take along with it all decay and corruption?” “You notice how even the weather is?” Ronnie said dryly. “It never got to a hundred during any of the heat waves, and the rain has been coming evenly and never too far apart. But my preserves molded the other day anyway. Even if all his stain is gone, the flaw in the Music remains, as well as the damage he did to matter: for matter was damaged before it was called into being, and the damage stays, even in Valinor under the hallowing of the Gods.” “You’re talking as if it actually happened.” said Ralph. Ronnie gave an enigmatic smile. “You guys are way beyond me.” said Dominique. “Is this, like, Lord of the Rings?” “This is what lies behind the Lord of the Rings.” Ralph answered. They had walked down to the bridge over Mad River, then turned up Willow Street, paralleling Main, and headed west downhill past the ballfields. The air was humid and even stuffy. Ronnie looked at the slow clouds like grey castles that were climbing up the east sky; one looked like a great wall, four round towers side by side, battlemented crenellations and everything. And in the south and west, moving slowly up to swallow the sun, there came a tumbled mass of ponderous clouds. “I told you, it’s a tradition!” Moriel was exclaiming. “The Fireman’s Carnival has to be rained out!” “Stop it, you’re bringing bad luck.” protested Dominique, giggling. “Catholics don’t believe in luck.” said Shannon archly. “Actually we do, kinda-sorta.” chuckled Ralph. He was never serious for long. “I mean, we do believe in spiritual causes outside ourselves for many events, and we do believe that both good and evil spirits often meddle in our lives, subject to Providence. So you might call that luck. What we don’t believe is that luck is greater than God.” “It’s bad luck to buck your luck.” quipped Ronnie. Mutters of thunder sounded now and again. The heaven overhead was now a slow mass of dark gray clouds like ragged tubes, churning ponderously over and over. Ahead, above the park with its’ flashing, carnival lights, there was a great ragged island amid the pale mountains and tattered cliffs of cloud; behind them lay like a sea an even darker greyness, fading to lighter higher up; the billows stood out milk-pale against it. “Hey, somebody dropped an umbrella!” yelled Moriel. “You should take it, Ronnie.” joked Ralph. “Then you get to hold it over the girls’ heads when it rains. “Inevitably rains.” Ronnie inspected the umbrella, apparently an uninjured one. It was long and black, furled tightly, with a tan and black blunt spike at the end, and a hooked cane-handle. “It looks just like Moria’s.” he said. Back to Arheled